


restless

by bluebirdskies



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: Fingering, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 14:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1691834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebirdskies/pseuds/bluebirdskies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you don't sleep when you're dead, you just get restless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	restless

**Author's Note:**

> .../hanna porn because i am shameless  
>  don't read if you aren't about that life or whatever.

You aren’t really quite sure what you’re doing.

You wonder what happened to that glorious self-control that you’ve always had but for some reason, it’s gone. You don’t know when you lost it. Maybe, you think, it was one of the countless nights of watching Hanna sleep. He’d curl up in his sheets and after an hour would pass, he’d mumble. He’d sigh and murmur all sorts of nothing to himself and if you were lucky, he’d moan. You’d look over, orange eyes illuminating the darkness as you’d peek up from whatever chapter of whatever book you were reading at the time and you’d see him squirm. You’d watch him writhe in his sleep, watch him roll over onto his back and see that tent in his boxers that made you… curious.

Sure, that was the word.

Maybe it’s because your senses are dull and sometimes, just sometimes, you realize how fragile he really is. Sometimes you forget that he’s mortal, that he’s little more than flesh and blood and bone and unlike you, he can’t be stitched back together with merely a faint dull sensation that’s supposed to be pain. He’s not immortal, he’s living, and when he dies, you don’t know what will happen to him. You don’t know what magic he’s sold himself to and he won’t tell you, won’t tell you what that jagged, stapled-up scar on his chest means, and with every little dismissive smile he gives you, every time he tells you not to worry, you feel yourself losing yourself more.

Because really, what would you do without him?

So when you come back from your latest case and he’s nursing another wound, you’re silent. He’s babbling on and on, telling you how it’s nothing, how he’s had worse, as if that would really be a comfort to you. He flops down on his bed and he’s reaching for the remote, but you don’t let him get that far. Not this time.

"Hey, Iggy, what are you-"

Your lips don’t even twitch as you have him pinned beneath you, but you wonder for a moment that if you were alive, would seeing him strewn out like this, so helpless, so perfect, if it would have made your pulse race and your breath quicken. You’ve got his wrists pinned down with one hand and with the other you’re yanking off those too-loose boxers he always sleeps in, tossing them across the room, forgotten in the mess you’ve been meaning to clean up for far too long. You look at him more like you’re studying him and you think that maybe, if your heart could beat, your eyes would be full of lust. You push his shirt up his chest, trailing chaste kisses up, between the runes and lines of his scar and you wonder if it hurts sometimes, if it bothers him or if he knows it bothers you or if these kisses feel good or bad or something in-between.

You wonder if he’s disgusted with you.

At first your fingers are slow, gentle, tip-toeing up his thigh, memorizing every freckle upon pale skin, every single little scar and knick and scrape and you’re determined to one day figure out how he got them all. He’s speaking but it doesn’t register on your ears and if he’s protesting, you wouldn’t know it. All you know is that he’s still moving beneath you and when you run the flat of your palm up the inside of his thighs, his cheeks are turning pink, his breath is coming out too quick and you’re… fascinated.

To say the least.

You don’t remember sex, not from when you were alive, but you weren’t stupid. You’d remembered it the same way you remembered walking and talking and fighting. It was just natural knowledge in your mind and you notice he’s giving the reactions you were hoping for. You drag your nails lightly down across the pale skin of his thighs and he’s moaning. You see his hard cock twitch as you nudge his legs further apart with your own and you think, that if you were alive, you’d be smirking. It isn’t too often you smile these days, but something tells you that when this is all over with, he might have you smiling yet. His eyes are shut tight, those beautiful lashes of his dusting his cheeks and his heart is hammering in his chest and for someone who has lost his self control, you sure do have a lot of it. Perhaps if you were alive you wouldn’t be so slow, so teasing, and you’d be giving him your cock without a second guess. You haven’t even bothered to make sure the damn thing still worked.

You’d worry about that another night.

You let your fingers curl around him and give his length a squeeze, drawing out another breathy noise, and that only fills you with more satisfaction. You refuse to let go of his wrists as you stroke him once, twice, three times, thumb brushing over the tip to smear the bead of precum like you just ruined a piece of fine art. You notice how he whines when you draw your hand away and then you know he wants it too and that really makes you… happy.

You couldn’t remember being happy in a long, long time.

Your free hand quickly finds the bottle of lotion he always keeps near the bed and you grip his wrists tighter, wondering faintly if he’ll sport your bruises in the morning. Something makes you think that if you leave marks, you won’t be so upset with him being hurt. Something makes you feel greedy when you tell yourself that, but you aren’t sure if that bothers you yet or not. You break away your grip from him long enough to uncap the bottle, spreading the lotion about your fingers and with this, his eyes open. They’re wide and gleaming and you don’t know if it’s fear or need or both but you don’t ask, your own eyes closing as you hear him speak.

"G-God, fuck, a-aah… I need… n-need it…"

You’ll never be able to deprive him of something he needs.

You grab his wrists again and press them hard against the sheets, his legs spread wide as you tease a finger over his entrance. He gasps and whines and as you push the digit in, he’s giving a cry, back arching up and you make sure to go slow, take your time. You don’t know if he’s done this before but something tells you he hasn’t, and something also tells you that you aren’t going to allow him to have anyone else.

By the look on his face, that doesn’t look like it’ll trouble him too much.

You press your finger deeper inside him and the noise he makes is even louder. You curl it forward, brushing it much-too gently against the bundle of nerves inside him and he’s crying out and you’re loving it. You didn’t even know that you remembered how to love until you met him, until you realized what he meant to you. You never thought that merely keeping him safe would give you purpose, that seeing his smile every single day made you happy to be… whatever it was you were. You never knew why you’d been given a second chance but now, you didn’t care why. All you wanted, all you needed was him, and you figured showing him was better than telling him.

You were never too good with words, anyways.

You press a second finger inside of him and he’s reeling, toes curling and giving cries of ‘Yes!’ and ‘More!’ and ‘Oh fuck!’ and you’re so glad he’s ceased with the endless onslaught of silly names but even if he was calling you something, you don’t think you’d care. You wouldn’t want this any less. You curve your fingers up again and he’s nearly screaming and fuck do you like the sound of that. Pleasure surges through you and god, you didn’t know that in this state that something as simple as a noise could make you feel so good. You don’t even hear yourself give a groan but he does. It makes him shiver and shake and you lean down to whisper in his ear to push him along.

"Don’t you ever go out and get hurt again, do you understand me, Hanna?" The only response you get is a moan and your burying your fingers inside of him harder, faster, scissoring him and letting the bliss of being stretched overtake him, "You’re mine. I need you. No one else can ever have you."

The sound of his name drives him wild and he’s tossing his head back against the pillow, a light sheen of sweat coating his skin and as you drag your tongue across his throat, you bet that he tastes like salt and desire, not that you can taste anymore. You feel his body start to quake, you see his thighs start to tremble and his breath is coming out so hard and so fast that you’d be worried in any other situation but this one. “Are you going to come for me, Hanna?” Another incoherent scream confirms this and you’re smiling, finally smiling, and you love the fact that something as simple as his name on your lips can set him on fire.

You wish you had a name so he could scream it.

"F-fuck! Nnn! I-I- aaah…!"

You push your fingers in deep and he’s coming with a scream, and you keep your fingers moving until he rides out his orgasm. Sticky strands of white are caked across his chest and abdomen and you gently, carefully, pull your fingers out. He gives a tired whine and you’re even more pleased, finally releasing him and sitting back, taking in this sticky, sweaty boy that you knew that you loved.

You simply hoped he’d figured that out.

It takes him a few minutes to catch his breath, to calm down, but as he does his eyes open again, cheeks still flushed a gorgeous rose and his voice is soft and shy, something you think is a bit odd, considering what you had just done to him. Not that it made it any less delightful. “Sleep with me tonight…?”

The question is simple and short but you nod, and you decide you’ll clean him up later, settling instead to draw the sheets up around you both as you lay beside him on the small mattress and within moments after curling up against your chest, he’s out like a light. You can’t sleep, but you don’t care. 

Something tells you that you won’t get restless tonight.


End file.
